Spent last night getting the lay of the land in my 'hood. Checked out five bars and rode around a lot. The scene here in the mission tends to be a little older than me, a touch square. Maybe I got the wrong wires crossed, but it felt like the alienating aspects of the East Village and good old Billysburg got lumped together. I also don't remember how I got home.

Also, where do I get off labeling things square? What gives me that right? Am I not also a workaday Californian with an office down the peninsula? Should I say goodbye to bohemia? I don't want to, but perhaps it's not up to me.

On the other hand, I'm no David Brooks -- who I used to respect somewhat vis a vis his appearances on the PBS News Hour opposite Mark Shields -- writing in a snarky fashion about online dating and capitalizing Web. What a rube. Maybe that's the NYT making him do that, but he writes like someone who's belabored just trying to move his arms within his starchy outfit, who's never slummed around in the public sluce of desire and anguish that is last call. Thank God for my shaggy hair and stubble and ease with bodily functions and collection of ecclectic Mp3's; can't be long before I stumble into something sweet and sweaty. Irony or thinly veiled confession? You be the judge.